


Collision Magnet

by Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody



Series: Windmills & Windowsills [3]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M, Scala ad Caelum (Kingdom Hearts)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 10:11:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18179264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody/pseuds/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody
Summary: Every sly fox was once an awkward kit.





	Collision Magnet

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write Eraqus as a walking gay disaster. That's literally it.

Training could easily start at dawn. If the instructors decreed it, then every prospective Keyblade master would have no choice but to drag themselves out of bed and stand at attention in the practice hall, squinting uncomfortably as sunlight streamed through the beautiful but functionally useless curtains.

Fortunately, the teachers enjoy their sleep as much as the students do, and training begins no sooner than nine o’ clock.

Still, Eraqus is an early bird, preferring to wake with the sun. He’ll often brew some tea and find a quiet spot to watch the mist disperse over the water, rising like the steam from his cup. In the past, he would have used this time to meditate, but as his training became more rigorous and his growth more rapid, he usually just ended up falling back asleep. Reading is his go-to activity now: stimulating enough to keep him awake, but relaxing enough not to sap his energy.

His eyes stay glued to the text as he navigates the hallways, the long staircase at the tower’s entrance, and the steep and winding streets of town. He’s been advised on more than one occasion to carry his book at his side, unopened, like a _normal_ person, until he finds a place to sit. Reading while walking is bad enough, his fellow trainees say. Reading while walking _and_ taking intermittent sips of hot tea? Courting disaster.

Eraqus always laughs them off. He knows the layout of this town better than anyone, and just like in training, he’s light on his feet. In fact, there’s only one other student who can match his sense of balance and unwavering poise.

And as Eraqus turns onto a side street, there he is, standing on a grassy patch further down, facing away from the road and toward the sea. Eraqus almost calls out to greet him, but something about Xehanort’s stance holds him back. Even without seeing his face, Eraqus can tell he’s in a state of deep concentration, and after a moment, he understands why. Xehanort pivots a few degrees and sweeps his arms slowly through the air, engaging in a style of tai chi that’s more meditative than martial.

The sight isn’t enough to stop Eraqus in his tracks, but it’s enough to slow him down. Certainly enough to keep his attention off his book for a few seconds. As always, Xehanort is precise and methodical, shifting his body with such practiced ease that Eraqus can barely tell where one pose ends and the next begins. His loose clothing does little to hide his strength, which manifests in even the slightest touch and gentlest motion.

Of all the places for Eraqus’s gaze to fix itself, it’s Xehanort’s hands that prove to be the most captivating. Their movements could be isolated from the rest of him, and they would tell a story all their own. Overlapping at the wrists, turning together, and then melting apart. He raises one hand to eye level, fingers fanned as if he’s trying to catch sunbeams, or simply wanting to touch them, to make contact with the filaments of light before letting them slip through his grasp.

Eraqus walks quieter, trying not to disturb him. Something about the pale morning light, low in the sky and coming in at a slant, emphasizes the stark contrast of Xehanort. His skin is a deep brown, but rimed with white hair—he is touched by both sun and frost, perfectly light and perfectly dark. His ambition and curiosity go hand-in-hand with his self-discipline and sense of order. He’s intensely focused on his exercise, yet soothed by it, his forms crisp and defined but effortlessly graceful.

It’s further proof of what Eraqus has known since day one: Xehanort is absolutely magnetic. His personality is a collection of opposite traits, interlocking with ease, and the extreme polarity that exists within him is nothing short of striking.

Not quite as striking as walking into a _literal_ pole—Eraqus is willing to concede that. He drops his tea in surprise and curses as he tries to blink away the sudden pain. He tilts his head back and raises his hand to his nose, hoping with all his heart that it isn’t bleeding.

And then, when he realizes that Xehanort is now the one watching him, he hopes it _is_. Because the only thing stupider than giving himself a bloody nose while gawking at his friend would be dramatically throwing his head back and pinching his nose for no reason whatsoever.

Xehanort is standing with both feet flat on the ground, arms at his sides, no longer a demigod of sunlight and martial arts and sleeveless shirts. The spell is broken, and he’s a regular person once again, staring at his friend in confusion and mild concern. “What…?” he asks, his unfinished question answered by Eraqus's general demeanor and the wobbling sound of the metal signpost still reverberating through the air.

“Nothing, nothing,” Eraqus says, withering inside at how nasally his voice sounds. Xehanort slowly points at Eraqus, then at the pole.

“Did you just walk into—”

“Oh, yeah,” Eraqus says, waving dismissively at the pole as if he had already forgotten it. “Reading and walking—bad habit," he adds, holding up the book to give credibility to his lie and only making it more obvious in the process. "This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Xehanort looks skeptical, but he lets the explanation slide. “Well…are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eraqus says with too much of a laugh in his voice.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. Heh, that sure woke me up. Sorry to, uh—don’t let me interrupt, you just go back to doing your—y’know—”

Eraqus realizes that he’s stammering, and when he sees his hand frozen before him, he realizes he's also been gesturing, increasing his awkwardness by a hundred percent. The best way to recover, he decides, is to abruptly raise his book, lift two fingers off it in a halfhearted wave, and blurt out, “See you in class.”

He doesn't wait for a response before continuing on his way—still holding his nose, just in case. Even when he rounds the corner, he doesn’t look back. He _will_ see Xehanort in class, but first, it’s time for an impromptu gondola ride, because clearly it’s not enough to make a hasty and conspicuous retreat down the road, around the corner, or even back up to the tower. After that display of total jackassery, the only thing left for him to do is skip town.

 _This isn’t weird_ , he assures himself as he approaches the station, an empty car miraculously gliding up to the platform as soon as he arrives. _Maybe this is my normal routine. Maybe I_ always _get up early to take a superfluous, round-trip ride to another town before class starts. Nothing odd about that. And even if there is, no one can prove it's a lie._

It’s only when the gondola is suspended above the ocean that Eraqus finally lowers his hand to check his nose. No blood. Another minor miracle, he figures. He massages his face gingerly, hoping there isn’t a bruise or a bump. He refuses to resort to Cure spells for injuries caused by his own social awkwardness.

He sighs and looks out the window, his mind inevitably straying back to the visual that made him forget his surroundings in the first place. There were the obvious details: Xehanort’s expert stance, his bare arms, those glimpses of his sharp profile before he faced forward again. From their very first meeting, all those months ago, Eraqus had known better than to delude himself into thinking he _didn’t_ have a crush on the guy. But he hadn’t let it take up much room in his brain until now, either.

Xehanort had seemed so different from usual as he went through his forms. In training, he tends to prioritize defense in an unorthodox way, holding his Keyblade aloft and slightly behind him. Almost like an animal feigning weakness, inviting others to make easy prey of him, and then landing the finishing blow once they’ve closed the distance themselves. It’s an open challenge, but a wary one.

But out on the grass, Xehanort looked as peaceful as Eraqus had ever seen him. He was meticulous, careful, and endlessly patient, but only as long as he stayed in motion. Because of this, his postures were ultimately fleeting, each one a mere stepping stone for the next.

White Crane Spreads Its Wings was the only move that had a real pause. Xehanort seemed to enjoy that stance in particular, holding it a little longer than necessary. Even beneath his loose shirt, Eraqus had seen his midsection expand and contract as he took a deep, calming breath of the dawn.

From there, Xehanort had transitioned to Cloud Hands. His arms encased an invisible sphere, like all of the hypothetical worlds he wants to visit someday, held right there in his palms.

And Single Whip: his left hand pushing forward as if he were trying to channel his heart through his entire arm. His other hand made a hook behind him, maybe to keep himself tethered as he thrust his heart from his body and out into the universe.

It’s possible that Eraqus—a voracious reader to begin with—is reading too much into it. But Xehanort fascinates him. It occurs to Eraqus that he could learn a lot about his classmate's fighting style by studying this slowed-down version of it. He might even gain an edge on him in training, at least until Xehanort realizes what's going on and works twice as hard to overtake him again.

But Xehanort wants—and deserves—time alone, especially first thing in the morning. _And so do you_ , Eraqus reminds himself, lying down on the bench and sliding his book beneath his head. Besides, he already feels guilty for watching Xehanort during what was meant to be a solitary moment.

Guilty, and a little flustered.

Maybe walking straight into a signpost was a blessing in disguise. At least it had given him an excuse for being so red in the face.

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I see the phrase "Single Whip" now, I get flashbacks to Mysterious Figure using Collision Magnet and flinging me around the field like a rag doll. I sure hope Xehanort never turns out to be a douchebag like that guy.


End file.
